Fifteen years in a childhood paradise

The winter of 1943 had been a mild one for us, but not so in Russia. Our troops suffered greatly under the extreme cold there, and the German Volk were asked to send woollen jumpers and socks to the front.

Opa became more and more pessimistic. He saw what was happening, and he knew in his heart, that the mighty German army had already been beaten. He could never convince us, though.

Normally, when we asked him: "And how are you Opa?" he would say: "I'm feeling terrible. I think I'm going to die."

But a week before the Easter week of 1943 he really did get sick. He had a bladder infection, and had to go to the hospital in Posen. I visited him there after school.

"And how are you, Opa?" "Oh, as good as can be expected. I am comfortable here." This answer made me immediately suspicious. He never mentioned that he was going to die. He was sitting there in bed and looking into the distance. We talked a little, but his mind was obviously already preoccupied with eternal things. The day after my visit he became unconscious. I was the last one of the family to see him with all his faculties still in tact. A few days later he died, on 20 April 1943.

His funeral took place on Good Friday, 23 April 1943. His coffin stood in the large salon, where we always used to celebrate Christmas together. The double doors to the dining room was wide open, and also the double doors to the servery. All rooms were packed with people, neighbours and workers. The minister spoke about Opa's life here, and how much he was loved by everyone, and his achievements in his early life.

Then the coffin was carried out and put on an open horse-drawn cart. All our coaches were being used for our family and other visitors. The village people all walked. Günter, Bernd and I had a coach for ourselves. We came after Oma, Vater and Mutter and Gerda, and Onkel Werner and Tante Margaret. There were many more following us towards the forest. It seemed as if the whole village was there to bid Opa a last farewell.

As our coach emerged from the road lined with chestnut trees, past the Swițety Jan, a heavy and sad feeling came over me. We would never see Opa again. All his jokes, his humour and his little tricks would be only memories now. When our coach entered the forest, I remembered that he had planted it more than 50 years ago. And now he was going to rest in the tomb, which he also had built, right in the centre of his beloved forest.

We walked the last 100 meters along a path that was lined with holly and small shrubs. The gate of the burial place stood open. All mourners crowded around the fence. After the committal the coffin was carried into the tomb, where it stood next to Walter's.

Opa had not been very religious, but he certainly had been a good man. Oma usually went to church on her own. Opa's excuse was, that he could not hear properly. But Oma was regular, rain or shine. She used the closed coupee carriage most of the time to go to our church in Stțeszew.

111